Parts that Make a Whole
by dancinggnome
Summary: Distinct moments of Shelagh and Patrick through the years. Most likely in drabble format.
1. Chapter 1: Smile

1978

She was looking at him. He sensed her gaze like a physical touch on his temple. But when he turned to her, she was absorbed in the final touches of her latest tea cosy. She never gave them up. Once, a foolish misjudgement let him tell her what he really thought of them, especially now that teasmades and electric kettles were the norm. She had gone quiet, but remained in her seat as hindsight-induced guilt trickled through his conscience. Had he not made a mental vow as his spoken ones were declared at the altar, to never let the smile leave her face?

He shifted his gaze towards the mantelpiece with all its smiling faces. Timothy had followed in his father's footsteps and practised at a surgery on the outskirts of London. The grandchildren came to visit every weekend, and he loved their love for their grandmother. Eternally awed at the sensibility of his son, he only smiled when Timothy had introduced Shelagh to the infants as their grandmother. No further details were needed. He knew that Timothy would always remember and love his biological mother, but saw the sense in holding back the history of two loss-suffering families from young minds whose lives held the potential to be utterly perfect.

The next photo was taken two days before Julie first expressed a wish to explore to America. Both Shelagh and he had to'd-and-fro'd. _But darling girl, are you certain that you wish to go so far away? Yes, I am completely certain._ They glanced at each other, drifting to a misty day, on a lone road severing a vast open field. Their own adventure taking a tentative, careful, yet precocious start - had they not stretched the boundaries that had been set for so long? What right did they have to hold their girl back? Sensing a change in atmosphere, Julie had gently reminded them that technologies had moved on, travel was faster. With the promise to telephone home every week, they let her fly.

The smiling faces stopped momentarily, and his eyes caught a pair of familiar, up-swept frames. He looked across the room. Her nose and ears supported a pair of rectangular spectacles with a black frame. Behind them, the intense azure gaze was still checking the final needlework, making sure nothing will unravel. Always careful. The concentrated lines between her brows were balanced by creases around her mouth. _Those dimples are nearly permanent._ His heart lightens with the thought of years of her, smiling: with reverence and hope at beautiful newborns; with pride and joy at Timothy and Julie; and at himself, with every emotion in the world. Devoting herself to her cause, her children, and this decrepit doctor. Indeed, the last smiles on the mantelpiece belongs to themselves. A candid wedding-day photo from "yonks ago", as Jenny Lee had called it on their previous meeting.

"Is something the matter?" His eyes had settled on her again of their own accord, and he finds himself the sole recipient of her attention, handicraft stowed away in a basket next to her on the sofa. A greying strand of silky hair has come loose from the twist at the nape of her neck, and his urge to tuck it back behind her ear is as good as an old habit.

"No. I was just thinking. I am less able go on frivolous adventures outside, so I make do with the ones in my head."

Her eyes become soft and wistful. He closes his and smiles.

**A/N: Thank you for reading. Feedback always deeply appreciated, if you have the time.**


	2. Chapter 2: Hands

1948

She sits up straight. Not that she ever slouched, it was an instinctive response to the Doctor Turner going off on ever spiralling tangents from the topic of the day's class – breech births. Or as he clarified with amusement - "most of Poplar refers to it as 'arse first', but as medical professionals, we refer to it as 'buttocks first'". For an hour she had watched his hands skittle across the blackboard drawing diagrams and writing notes. Now they were gesturing wildly as he raved about the newly formed World Health Organization. Until they stopped mid-air and his whole demeanour relaxed.

Sister Bernadette turned around in her seat at the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

"Darling, what are you doing here? Is something the matter?" the doctor asked, running up to his wife, hands reaching instinctively for pulse point and baby bump.

"Oh don't mind me, I just brought over a cake for the nuns, then I decided to stay and go back with you." Mrs Turner gripped a chair and lowered herself into a seat with a smile at Sister Bernadette. Doctor Turner gripped a piece of chalk and set into action again.

Sister Bernadette was not too young to understand the multitude of unknown unknowns in the world, yet could not help but wonder how one person could know so much. She quietly decided that she would learn everything the Doctor had to offer, to become the best nurse and midwife she could possibly be. Starting with assisting Sister Julienne the same afternoon.

"But... I do not know where... those... claws are!"

"Those 'claws', Sister Monica Joan?"

"The," a few contemplative seconds passed, "clamps!" The last word was expelled with such a triumphant vigour that even Sister Evangelina took half a step back. "The clamps are in the autoclave." Sister Monica Joan remembered, and immediately swept out of the small office to fetch the missing clamps.

Sister Julienne had been writing up the day's schedule on the blackboard, and entered the room to find a pensive Sister Evangelina.

"Penny for your thoughts, Sister?"

"I'm beginning to doubt whether she's fit for work."

"And what do you think, Sister Bernadette?"

The order's newest member had been packing her medical bag, with her eyes determinedly down for the duration of the frustrating exchange, fingers occupied by a disobedient stethoscope. She looked up with a start, eyes betraying delight at being included in the proceedings, and concern for the eldest Sister.

"Well, it is difficult to tell when Alzheimer's starts to set in, and how far along the path of dementia a person has travelled, given the highly gradual symptoms – forgive any inaccuracies – but," she hesitated, "since I have been with you, this is the third time Sister Monica Joan has forgotten about equipment she put away for sterilisation, and then there was the time she omitted to mention to Fred that his daughter had rang... but she always seems to be able to find the cake in the pantry!" the young nun attempted to finish on a positive.

Sister Evangelina huffed. "See, even the young 'un has noticed!"

Sister Julienne smiled at Sister Bernadette, pleased that their new friend was so able to apply theory to practice. _A quick learner will be useful during this impending season. We have more expectant mothers booked in than ever! Must be the soldiers finally settling in back home. _She mentally chastised herself for the thought.

"Ready Sister?" She asked.

Sister Bernadette ducked into her medical bag for one last check. Sister Julienne observed the young woman's hands counting the supplies, and lamented the fate they were about to befall. The nuns were, among other things, bound by a vow of poverty, and those young, white hands were going to face all manner of wind and precipitation. _Such a beautiful girl. She could have become a model, an actress, or an air-hostess... _

Then she asked Him to forgive her selfishness, as she thanked him for sending her to Poplar, to the order, and to nursing.

**A/N: I should have added last time, this is the first time ever that I have written fic, let along putting it up here. No matter how I wrangled this chapter, it doesn't sit right with me, so feedback would be most appreciated. Thank you for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3: Rhythm

1958

"...and you said you were an atrocious dancer!"

Traditions die hard. Patrick and Shelagh were languidly moving around the hall to the Anniversary Waltz – a souvenir from the war, and a reminder to hold what you cherish close to your heart. And so they did. Mentally, they always had, Patrick's late wife, Shelagh's late mother, the wish to help others, and Timothy would always be given due credit for setting them on the path that lead them to each other. But now that they were able to hold each other, life was all the sweeter.

A few weeks prior, Trixie had asked Timothy to pass on a message to his father and soon-to-be step-mother. Shelagh had already established a routine where she visited and cooked for father and son's mangled tastebuds once a week, and it was at the table that the suggestion was heard.

"Dad, may I go to a dance this weekend?"

"Is your school holding a dance?"

"No, Trixie said there would be a dance this Saturday, and that the nurses go regularly. It's supposed to be a stonking good time!"

Patrick hesitated. "I'm sorry, I think you're still a little bit too young. Besides, I don't even know what happens at these dances."

"Have you never been to one?!" Timothy's eyes grew big over the rim of his glass of water. "Ever?"

"It... was a long time ago."

"Can't you and Sister B-, Shelagh, go and have a look then? See what it's like?"

From the corner of his eye, Patrick had seen Shelagh's attempt to stifle the excitement on her face, and knew that there was only one thing for it.

She wore a navy, boat-necked frock with a full skirt, and he wore a gun-metal grey suit. Together, they had wobbled on the dance floor under the glare of eagle-eyes around the room. While their colleagues were innocently curious to see how they interacted with one another outside of clinic, and ultimately hoping they would enjoy themselves, members of the Poplar gossip mill were also present, anticipating exclusive stories to scoop. Patrick and Shelagh soon retired to a table, sitting with a chaste arm's-length between them, where she apologised for her poor dancing. However, he had witnessed her joy as she emerged with her fellow nurses from the doors of the new clinic earlier that day, and was determined to create a happy memory from a dance for her. She had deprived herself of such pleasures for so long. She deserved it.

"A ceilidh band!" She brought him back to the present, "It was one of the best parts of my childhood, the music, I... Thank you for bringing me here."

Even though the last strands of Highland fiddle had died out hours ago, to be replaced by dancehall classics, neither had made a move to leave. In the safety of each other's presence and among strangers, they took their time to learn how to dance together. He lead and she followed, through waltzes, foxtrots, even the odd quickstep – the fit was perfect. She could not stop smiling, and he could not stop smiling at her.

During the day, they barely touched. For one, they did not need to. A moment of eye-contact was enough to make two hearts beat just that smidgeon faster. Besides, the long, arduous road to their engagement had well and truly taught them that patience eventually reaps its rewards, and they had no intention whatsoever of feeding the parish gossips. For another, it was all the more special when they did.

It was always with reverence and absolute trust that he held her hand, like a diver's link to air, like an invalid to a healer. He only wished he could return the abundance of love and new life she gave him without missing a beat. Here he was, an old man, having a criminally good time in the small hours of the day because of her. He felt indebted.

The exit was surrounded by a halo of dawn, like walking into heaven. With an angel on his arm, her golden hair framing shining blue eyes and euphoric smile, his heart threatened to overflow in exaltation. They wandered side-by-side along the Thames, following its course back home to Poplar.

The fresh, autumn breeze tumbled her tresses, the birds stubbornly sang songs of summer, but in their hearts, it was spring.

_September Song_

_Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few  
September, November  
And these few precious days I'll spend with you_

_These precious days I'll spend with you_

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and particular amounts of gratitude to reviewers! Let me know your thoughts if time allows. So, there was really only one more planned chapter of these ditties, but I am toying with the idea of adding the five-year marks too. Your input on this is ardently welcome. :)**


	4. Chapter 4: Heart

1968

_Day 0_

"I never thought I would have to say this out loud, but you need to understand that the only thing that could truly break me is if you left me..."

_Day -31_

"Dad, this fell out of your pocket." Julie Turner handed the traitorous object to her father. "Mr Brown, my English teacher, has one too. Mrs Brown saw him using it when she came to school to give him his packed lunch that he'd left at home. She was very cross with him. Why do you have one daddy?"

"Yes 'daddy', why _do_ you have one?" came the ever-loved Scottish voice over his shoulder. Shelagh Turner was leaning against the door to their kitchen, arms crossed, eyes opaque.

Sensing danger, Patrick Turner fidgeted a little with his tie. In his head he began to formulate answers that would satisfy both wife and daughter, but the latter waded in before he could open his mouth.

"Dad, are you smoking?! But you're a doctor! Doctors should not smoke! The upper-school pupils even showed us some of the anti-smoking posters the NHS had sent them for biology classes. It's bad for you!" Julie stopped abruptly to take a breath. Patrick stepped in.

"No, we're using them for experiments at the hospital. They're less fiddly than matches."

Julie eyed him for a moment, unconvinced, but nodded, and walked around her mother into the kitchen.

Shelagh stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

"So we are lying to our children now?"

"It was a white lie, you saw how upset she got..."

"Then why would you upset her?"

"I..."

Shelagh had reopened the kitchen door. The conversation was over.

_Day -7_

He heard her singing. Scenes from their time together panned across his vision. He could not see her, but her plainsong was constant.

Nonnatus House, with sunlight streaming through high, arched windows. The distant sound of a hissing kettle, and the breeze entering through the forgotten door to the garden, bringing in the scent of chrysanthemums, and disturbing the dust particles floating in the air.

The seaside promenade in Torquay, on a chanced-upon sunny day. Soft-serve in sugar cones in front of ice cream-coloured houses. A lavender sun-back dress revealing one, two, three freckles on a shoulder-blade.

The musty, rust-coloured walls of the old ante-natal clinic. Rain hammering on the window. Sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, watching an excited group of bottle-green caps swarm around the room.

Poplar, hidden under pristine snow and coated in hoar frost. Wiping away the grime and toil of everyday life for another year, spurring the residents on with promises of greener seasons to come.

She had stopped singing, and seemed to be calling to him, getting nearer and nearer.

"Patrick?"

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

_Day 3_

They are walking around the garden. A part of Shelagh wanted to be angry with Patrick for bringing her to one more sanatorium than she could care to visit. But she had to. Watching him, ashen-faced and frail, struggle around the grounds was still a million times better than not seeing him at all.

Sometimes he looked at her. She felt his gaze graze her temple, trying to catch her eyes, then falling away. She was inspecting the gravel beneath their feet as though she could tell its chemical composition if she looked hard enough. Patrick sensed more than he saw her troubled mind, but onlookers sitting on the benches witnessed red-rimmed eyes behind golden spectacles, determinedly holding back tears.

On their third lap around the pond he took her hand. She was startled not by the action, but by the force of his grip. It may have looked sudden, and even violent, but she knew that he was holding on for dear life, and his fear frightened her.

_Day -15_

"Really, dad, should you not be trying to set a good example for your patients?"

Timothy Turner – or "Junior Doc" as his sister had labelled him, proud as punch – had outgrown his father in his late teens. He walked up to him, white coat flapping about his knees, brown hair slicked back in a 'do that was as stylish for the times as it was functional for a medical practitioner to-be.

"Who told you?"

"You're hardly hiding the smoking anymore... but, Mum did."

"Shelagh? I thought it would be more like 'Julie' to let slip. Do you tittle-tattle a lot behind my back?" Patrick attempted a joke.

"She worries, you know. Don't forget that she's a nurse, and a highly skilled one at that. She probably smelt the smoke in your clothes and saw the yellow fingertips far sooner than she let on. It's funny, the few girls there are at medical school feel that they _have_ to smoke to show that they are on the same level as the men, despite the recent campaigns. Double standards..."

"Well, I'm glad your heart's in the right place, son," he stubbed out his cigarette with his foot, "it's this new environment, a research hospital. There's more competition than I would like, and less focus on caring for the patients. Watching old McGuinness go... Will I be next? I didn't want my stress to leech into Shelagh."

"Honestly dad, I think Mum's made of sterner stuff than that, and if you're worried about your position, I've only heard the teachers say good things about you. Besides, remember that terrible cough that finally made you give up the last time? I should think you wouldn't want to go through that aga-"

Timothy is called away, and Patrick left to his thoughts about this very particular mother-son relationship. He lights another cigarette.

_Day -8_

It is unceremonial when it happens. Shelagh and Patrick are trying to figure out a short holiday together, around both of their schedules, and at the convenience of Sister Julienne, who encouraged them to take time off, and insisted she look after Julie while they were away. Julie had been ecstatic at the idea, pronouncing that staying with Sister Julienne was the best parts of being at home and away at the same time, and could not get her parents out of the house soon enough. The adults had laughed fondly.

They are dismissing a particular week on account of a surgeons' meeting when Patrick's face freezes. The knuckles on his right hand whiten as he grips the table, and Shelagh knocks her chair over rushing over to support his left side.

"Patrick? Speak to me. Patrick!"

He manages only to make incoherent noises before collapsing to the floor, right hand clutching his head.

"She-... Where...?"

"I am right here!... Julie?! Ring for an ambulance, and then for Sister Julienne!" She started reciting familiar words from the Bible under her breath.

"What's wrong mummy?"

"Just do it! Please! And use the telephone on the landing!"

But Julie had just skidded to a halt outside the kitchen, eyes wide and seemingly paralysed, like her father.

"Julie! The telephone!"

No response. Shelagh quickly weighs her choices and runs for the telephone, grabbing Julie on the way. One of their children had seen enough medical misfortunes during his younger days, the other should be spared.

_Day 0_

"I only wanted to see you," he paused, "I had this whole, anaesthetised dream world to myself, but..." he trailed off.

"I know." She finished. And carried on.

"Do you remember the first thing you said after you woke up?"

"'Don't tell Nurse Turner?'" Which elicited a small, bemused sigh from her.

"You pondered whether or not the smoking was the reason we never had any more children," she said bluntly.

"Oh."

"Was this something you had thought about before the stroke?"

"Not precisely. There would be days when I look at you, with your youth and beauty, and all those other mothers we meet with large, happy families. I worried that it was my age, at first."

"What are you talking about?" She fidgeted with the crisp, white, hospital bedspread, concerned with this sudden, new incomprehension between herself and her beloved. It was a most unwelcome change.

"There were moments, more of them lately, when I worried that you might someday look at the big world of possibilities out there, and realise that you had sold yourself short by being with me, and that maybe there were... others, who could give you more, what you deserve."

She wasn't sure whether it was the medication or his broken heart that was speaking. She reasoned with herself that she should not take his words to heart so soon after his treatment, yet-

"I am wearing your rings. We have two wonderful children. I still thank God for you every day. Why you think otherwise? Have I given you a reason to worry?"

"No. Perhaps it was the drugs talking at the time. I suddenly saw the world without you," his voice was even but he was blinking rapidly, "and I thought 'even if this stroke couldn't do it, that would have done me in for good.' I just want to be with you, protect you."

She looked at him openly, a picture of devastation.

"I never thought I would have to say this out loud, but you need to understand that the only thing that could truly break me is if you left me behind."

_Day 7_

The first night of Patrick's recuperation at home, Shelagh slept in Julie's room. The second night, she was on call, as one of the other nurses had fallen ill, despite the hospital's permission for her to take the week off. He had found her sound asleep on the sofa when he fetched a glass of water.

On the third night, he had wanted her. Mentally and physically. He still slept on his side of the bed, and the void next to him felt far greater than the petite woman who usually occupied it. He tried to fill it with memories. Working together in the clinic, delivering beautiful children to this world; their own children, laughing and digging up worms in the garden, both with the same determined curiosity, despite the difference in age; the silkiness of her hair, the scent of her skin, and the feeling of her heartbeat in his hand when he held her at night.

He dared not ask her to return to their bed. It would have to be her choice. He prayed to a God he no longer doubted that _that_ would indeed be her choice – to come back.

_Day 14_

He is washing up when she arrives back to a portion of fish and chips sitting on the dining room table, and the voices of Timothy telling a delighted Julie about his latest pathological adventures.

"I didn't know Timothy was going to be back tonight."

"I didn't know either, until an hour and a half ago – he said he might relieve you of looking after the invalid for the weekend."

"Thoughtful boy."

"He had some good influences."

He brings her a cup of tea.

"How was your day?"

"I spent the whole day in the classroom, teaching new midwives. I can only just get to grips with the new tools and facilities," she let herself reminisce, "when you taught me back in Poplar we only had the bare essentials, thanks to the war."

"You were, and are, a splendid midwife and teacher."

"How are you feeling?"

"'I've had enough rest to kill a mule.'"

She laughs for the first time in weeks, "it's your own fault, old man."

Her laughter gives him courage, and he tentatively takes her hand, first looking at the rings on her finger, then turning it over to run his thumb over the faint line of an old scar.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. I'm sorry too. "

He meets her gaze, and he cannot help but ask, "I'm not used to sleeping alone anymore."

"Me neither. I think I needed a little time, but the time has convinced me that I'd rather have you," she states, matter-of-factly.

At that, the dark shadows under his eyes seemed to lighten. His eyes roamed her face, and found it as open and honest as ever.

"Sometimes I still cannot believe that you-"

"Believe it."

"I never thought that you would-"

"But I do." Her free hand had moved to straighten the lapel of his shirt, and came to rest comfortably on his shoulder, which relaxed on command. "All is well. Just do not frighten me again like you did."

"Yes, officer."

The corners of her mouth tipped upwards.

"Well then sergeant, what of that revisit to Torquay of ours?"

**A/N: Apologies for the delay. A spot of writer's block, and life, got in the way. I am trying out a new style - for me at least - here, so I hope you will bear with. You also get a bumper - again, for me - update, so perhaps that will make up for the break a little bit. Thanks as always for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. ****I should mention that, while I'm sure many of us subscribed to the headcanon that Shelagh and Patrick will have a daughter and name her for Sister Julienne as soon as 2x08 aired, Equestrienne Dreams wrote it first, so that's where that comes from. ****Please review if you have time, and thanks to those who have left messages. :)**


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